Exhaustion is a strange kind of drug. It doesn't just put you to sleep gently; it pulls you under violently, dragging you so far down into the dark that waking up feels like trying to swim through wet cement.
When I finally opened my eyes, the violent howling of the mountain storm was completely gone. In its place was a heavy, suffocating quiet that made my ears ring.
Pale morning sunlight bled through the narrow gaps in the thick wooden shutters, casting long, dusty stripes across the foot of the bed. For about three seconds, my brain gave me the temporary gift of amnesia. I was just a girl waking up in a cozy, warm bed. My mind was blissfully empty.
Then, the dull, throbbing ache in my bruised right wrist flared up.
The entire nightmare came crashing back down on me like a collapsed
